


I Spy

by KyloTrashForever



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (but weirdly sexual torture), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Crack Treated Seriously, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Poe Dameron, Dubious Consent, Humiliation kink, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Paddling, Poe Dameron Being a Little Shit, Poe Dameron is the only person in the galaxy who can avoid torture by getting hard, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Praise Kink, Pre-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Rimming, Verbal Humiliation, Waterboarding, how hux became "the spy", hux is not very good at torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyloTrashForever/pseuds/KyloTrashForever
Summary: He swings the paddle to let it rest against his shoulder, strutting around the table with a sense of victory as he leans to make himself eye level with Dameron’s lolled head and grabbing for his hair with his free hand.He jerks Dameron’s head up to meet a pained expression that makes him smug, clearing his throat. “Are we ready to talk?”Dameron blinks, and then swallows, and Armitageknowshe’s won, canfeelit, he’s—“You spank like a girl, Hugs.”Armitage drops Dameron’s head with feral sound, tossing the paddle against the wall in a rage and breaking it.Apparently he’s going to need to get creative.In which Hux is not very good at torturing people.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Comments: 24
Kudos: 168





	I Spy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Minstrels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minstrels/gifts).



> HELLO! 
> 
> Today is Lucy's birthday, and for Lucy's birthday, she asked me for a cracky Gingerpilot in which Hux is terrible at torture and Poe is weirdly into it.
> 
> So here we are.
> 
> HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS TO LOVELY LUCY YOU DESERVE THE WORLD! 🎉❤️  
> 

“Sir, we’ve apprehended the pilot.”

Armitage turns from where he’s standing at the observation deck, peering down at Dopheld who waits warily on the steps below. “Which pilot?”

“Poe Dameron, Sir,” he informs him. “A Commander of the Resistance now, I’m told.”

Armitage feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a sneer curling at his lip. “Dameron? You’re sure?”

“Yes, Sir.” Dopheld nods emphatically. “He’s been positively identified.”

“Poe Dameron is _dead,”_ Armitage sneers.

Dopheld visibly withers. “Misinformation. We picked him up on the outskirts of Ikkrukk. We believe he was trying to rescue other members of the Resistance currently being held captive there by Colonel Barrut.”

Armitage wrings his hands together that are clasped behind his back, scowling down at the floor. He can hear Dopheld still continuing to speak, his droning voice informing of the particulars of the matter—but Armitage is lost to the irritation building inside, one that comes from the memory of that wretched pilot’s insolence.

To this day, he still hears the whispers of _General Hugs_ snickered behind his back.

_Fucking Dameron._

“—have him sequestered on level three right now, but he’s secure. Should I inform the Supreme Leader?”

Armitage snaps to attention then, his frown deepening. “No. That won’t be necessary.” Their so-called _Supreme Leader_ is off galavanting Maker-knows-where in search of his precious _Scavenger_ that he’s so fixated on. Not that it matters, because more than anything: “I’d like to take care of this matter myself.”

Armitage smiles then, thinking that today things will finally go his way. 

* * *

He changes into his nicest coat, his sharpest boots, before he makes the long walk to level three. He wants to look his fiercest, his most put together—wants to ensure that there is no room for ridicule, nothing for the egregious flyboy to latch onto. 

Today _he_ will be the one in control.

The doors to the interrogation room slide open with ease as Armitage stalks into the room, tugging at his leather gloves to ensure that they’re in place as he rounds the metal rack where Dameron is trussed up good and tight. 

He looks bruised and a little beaten, his lip bloodied and a dark purple blooming beneath one eye. He isn’t sure why this annoys him—surely it is only that Armitage is put out that someone would start in on Dameron before he got the chance to do it himself. 

Dameron peeks up at him through sweat-drenched hair, cracking open one eye before his lips curl in a grin. “Hey, Hugs. Good to see you again.”

Armitage narrows his eyes, eyeing his worn linen outfit. “You will address me as General, or not at all, creton.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty,” he rasps. “You here to give me the business?”

Armitage feels heat creeping up his neck. “I want information on the whereabouts of General Organa. You’re going to give it to me.”

“See,” Dameron chuckles dryly. “I don’t think I am.”

“If you refuse to cooperate of your own accord,” Armitage warns, “I will be forced to extract the information from you by more… unpleasant methods.”

The corner of Dameron’s mouth quirks. “Do your worst, _General_ Hugs.”

Armitage’s blood heats, but he stows his anger, letting the pleasure of retribution keep him calm. He’ll finally have his chance now to return the humiliation shown to him tenfold.

And he intends to.

* * *

“You think you’re going to get me to talk just by giving me a bath?”

He’s laughing at him again. Actually _laughing._ How _dare_ he.

Armitage heaves another bucket of water at Dameron’s face—his brief sense of satisfaction over Dameron’s heave for breath short-lived when it ends in another sputtered laugh. He laughs hard enough to reveal straight white teeth that seem too perfect for lowly scum like him, and Armitage chides himself immediately for even noticing. 

His eyes dip down to the threadbare shirt that is now soaked through, briefly noticing the way it clings to a body much wider than his own. Of _course_ he would be in finer shape than Armitage. Just another thing for him to laugh about. 

“You keep going soft on me, Hugs,” Dameron taunts, “I might start to think you like me.”

Armitage’s cheeks flood with heat, his eyes widening in surprise before the anger takes over. 

He says nothing, turning to refill the bucket.

* * *

It had taken him some help to get Dameron off the rack, two Stormtroopers pulling him down and hoisting over the metal rack that had been maneuvered into a table-like flatness to tie him down on his stomach. Armitage feels a slight surge of glee as he paces around the table—trying not to be discouraged by Dameron’s bored expression from the opposite edge.

Armitage strides to the wide wall of various devices kept for more… forceful interrogations when the room is once again empty and the door locked—perusing the instruments on the wall as he makes a show of choosing one.

“Getting old over here, Hugs,” the scoundrel jeers. 

Armitage is grateful that Dameron can’t see his irritated expression, smoothing it over quickly as he plucks a wooden paddle from the rack to tap it against his palm as he turns to regard his captive. 

“If you want to act like a child, perhaps you should be punished like one,” Armitage says in a practiced sneer.

Dameron cocks an eyebrow as he cranes up his neck to cock an eyebrow, _grinning_ of all things. _Infuriatingly_ so. “You’re gonna spank me on our first date? I think you should probably buy me dinner first, don’t you think?”

Armitage grits his teeth, blatantly ignoring the taunt as he circles back around to the other side of the table where Dameron is helpless to Armitage’s assault. He runs his fingers down the engraved front of the wood—tracing the carved letters of _Millicent’s Revenge_ carefully before giving another loud clap against his gloved palm. 

“Perhaps you’ll have more to say after a little pain,” Armitage says pointedly, shrugging out of his coat to drape it on a nearby console.

There’s a huff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Is this really how you torture people? Seems pretty sexual to me, Hugs.”

Armitage can feel his face heating, feels his blood pressure rising with every second, and it isn’t careful now—the way he grips the edge of Dameron’s linen pants.

Armitage is startled momentarily by the same golden tone of his backside to match the rest of him—having assumed such a pompous ingrate as Dameron might have just spent too many days lounging in the sun. Something that apparently is not the case. It’s a stark contrast to Armitage’s pale… well, _everything_ —and it takes him several seconds to realize he’s just standing there staring at his prisoner’s bare ass.

One that begins to _wiggle_ slightly. “Not gonna spank itself, _General.”_

He finds now he’s much less distracted. 

He rears back his arm, flicking his eyes to the other side of the table where Poe has turned his face to watch—this fact giving Armitage pause, but only momentarily. He finishes with a heavy swing that ends with a satisfying _crack_ of skin—and he’s rewarded with Dameron’s sharp grunt of pain, with the immediate reddening of his golden skin, the slight imprint of the engraving there.

And he feels triumphant, he feels _vindicated_ , he feels—

“Wow,” Dameron says roughly. “You really went for that. You spank people a lot?”

Armitage purses his lips, rearing back for another swing. He lets it fall harder this time, giving it everything he’s got—and Dameron cries out loudly as that same _crack_ sounds in the room. 

Armitage feels a satisfied smile at his mouth, because Dameron _deserves_ this, he thinks. He deserves it a hundred times over. 

_Crack!_

_Hugs? With an H?_

_Crack!_

_Skinny guy? Kind of pasty?_

_Crack!_

_Leia_ _has an urgent message for him… about his mother._

Armitage is out of breath now, his arm falling to his side and Dameron’s ass bright red from the beating he’s administered. He pants as he glances across the table to take in Dameron’s slumped form—finding him silent, _finally._

He swings the paddle to let it rest against his shoulder, strutting around the table with a sense of victory as he leans to make himself eye level with Dameron’s lolled head and grabbing for his hair with his free hand.

He jerks Dameron’s head up to meet a pained expression that makes him smug, clearing his throat. “Are we ready to talk?”

Dameron blinks, and then swallows, and Armitage _knows_ he’s won, can _feel_ it, he’s—

“You spank like a girl, Hugs.”

Armitage drops Dameron’s head with feral sound, tossing the paddle against the wall in a rage and breaking it. 

Apparently he’s going to need to get creative.

* * *

He’s exerted now and frustrated, but not yet ready to give up: He stares at the wall of instruments like they’re a puzzle to be solved—passing over the more… _heinous_ -looking devices for reason he can’t even explain. Perhaps it just feels too easy. 

He narrows his eyes when they pass over a particularly interesting looking piece, stroking his chin in thought before wrapping his fingers around the cylindrical metal to test the weight in his hands. He thinks no man would risk a threat to the most precious part of their anatomy, Dameron being no different. Perhaps even more so, given that he’s a particularly unbearable breed of man.

Dameron is looking up at Armitage when he turns, looking exerted himself but no less infuriating. Armitage’s eyes flick down to check that yes, his cuffed hands are still secured by the lock below the table, keeping his hands trapped near the ground. Dameron will need to be on his back for what Armitage has in mind, and to that end Armitage places the device on the table next to Dameron’s prone form before bending to unlatch his cuffed hands. 

It takes effort to roll Dameron’s unyielding body by himself, but still he refrains from asking for anymore help—unwilling to unlock the doors for fear of anyone discovering he hasn’t broken the rebel scum yet. Dameron draws up his cuffed wrists to wrest against his chest when he’s laid out longways on the table—his linen pants still slung haphazardly around his hips to reveal a dark line of hair extending from his navel to disappear into his pants that still _just_ cover anything indecent. 

He watches as Armitage restrains his midsection to the rack before cranking it back into a more upright position. Armitage clears his throat as he picks up his chosen device, holding it up sinisterly for Dameron to see as he begins to circle the rack. “Perhaps you might not keep that cocksure attitude if I were to rid you of it.”

Dameron narrows his eyes at the narrow cylinder in Armitage’s hands, looking unsure for the first time since Armitage entered the room.

_Good._

“Do you know what this is, Dameron?”

Dameron purses his lips, something that almost resembles a pout. Even with the way one side is bloodied, his lower lip seems too full for a man, Armitage thinks.

_Kriff, where did that come from?_

He scrambles to regain focus as Dameron cocks an eyebrow. “Your dildo of choice?”

Armitage can feel his face screwing up in anger, and he reaches to unlatch the cylinder so it falls open at the hinge that holds the two mirrored pieces together. “Can you imagine what goes in here, you insufferable rebel trash? You’ll notice how snug it is.” Armitage closes it back to reach for the little button on the side, giving it a push as the device seems to detach into hundreds of tiny rings that begin to wind into one another, making the device suddenly narrower. Armitage gives Dameron a leering smile. “Can you imagine how quickly you’ll run out of room? Do you think you’ll be so insolent when this crushes your…” Armitage’s eyes flick down to the front of Dameron’s pants. “Confidence?”

Dameron remains maddeningly stoic. “Been waiting a long time to get your hands on my cock, huh, General?”

Armitage has to turn to hide the way his anger turns to shock, the way his cheeks heat with embarrassment. He takes a steadying breath as he clutches the device—pursing his lips. 

“I hoped you’d find your way back into our grasp,” Armitage says. “I hoped I’d be the one to teach you some manners. You filthy rebels—you think you’re something of a _marvel_ with your lack of order or any real dignity, well. Today you’ll learn how to respect your betters.” Armitage hears a clinking of metal, and he turns quickly to find Dameron blinking back at him, nothing amiss. “Today,” Armitage tells him with narrowed eyes, “I’m going to teach you some _manners.”_

And he has every intention of doing just that, of teaching this boorish, _brainless_ oaf something about respect, something about _consequence_ , reaching for the hem of Dameron’s pants with one gloved hand to—”

“What the _devil_ are you doing?”

Armitage backs away in horror, only just realizing that while he was busy giving Dameron his complaints about his person— _Dameron_ had been busy—busy making himself—making himself—

One corner of Dameron’s mouth quirks. “Think that little toy of yours will still fit?”

Armitage shrinks away with a scurrying step from the stark outline of an _obvious_ erection straining against the linen front of his pants. Armitage stares open-mouthed for no other reason than he has _no idea_ how to process what he’s seeing, because how in the _world_ did he even—

“Y-you,” Armitage sputters. “You insolent little—”

“Maybe if you really work at it, you could still make it fit,” Dameron offers flippantly. “You seem like a pretty determined guy.”

Armitage practically shakes with rage, tossing the device on the floor and seeing red as he reaches for the blaster at his hip. Information be _damned_ —he’s going to _kill_ the bastard and be _done_ with it.

His steps are loud and heavy as he stomps across the meager space between himself and the rack, having every intention to shove his blaster right up against Dameron’s chest and end all of this rampant frustration—but he never gets the chance.

Because what Armitage didn’t know until this very moment, is that apparently, while Armitage was busy prattling off the long list of Dameron’s shortcomings—Dameron was busy picking the locks of his handcuff with Maker knows what. 

It comes as a surprise when Dameron suddenly lunges—one hand grappling Armitage’s hand that holds his blaster while another clamps around Armitage’s waist to subdue him. Armitage is too stunned to react, and before he can react Dameron is circling behind, twisting Armitage’s arm behind his back as he shoves him face first into the rack that had held him only a moment before.

“Now,” Dameron says with something like amused triumph. “What were you saying about teaching me some manners?”

Armitage begins to thrash—but Dameron is brawnier, simply using his weight to keep Armitage pinned. “ _Unhand_ me you vile—you wretched—”

Dameron only shoves him harder against the cold metal, and Armitage falls silent when he feels the press of his blaster barrel poking into his back. “That’s some tough talk for someone in your position.”

Armitage feels cold dread creeping up his spine as he imagines the way this miscreant might enact revenge—closing his eyes as he presses his lips together in fear. 

“That’s a good General,” Dameron mutters. 

He starts to pat down Armitage’s pockets, no doubt looking for the keycard that will open the door—his actions pressing his front closer to Armitage’s back in a way that has something _else_ poking into something far lower than Armitage's back. 

His face heats suddenly, remembering what it was that got them here.

Because Dameron is still… _aroused._ At least, his lower half is. It might even strike Armitage as impressive that he could maintain it with everything going on—if he wasn’t so terrified and shocked. 

Every shift of Dameron’s body rubs the hard appendage against Armitage’s backside—and he bites his lip as a strange sensation flutters in his belly, one that he’s not sure he’s ever experienced. He shifts minutely in a way that is instinctive, trying to shy away from the pat of Dameron’s hand that still continues to search him. 

He closes his eyes when Dameron reaches around to slide his hand down the side of Armitage’s pants leg—his touch so heavy it is almost like a caress. Something that is ridiculous, Armitage thinks. Dameron reaches around to repeat the motion on the other side, and Armitage’s mouth parts when strong fingers slide up his thigh and higher to press against his hipbone.

“Where’s the damn keycard, Hugs?” Dameron makes a frustrated sound. “Know you got it here somewhere…”

Heat flushes up Armitage’s neck to creep into his cheeks and his ears and everywhere else—because he’s not sure that Dameron realizes that he’s actively _rutting_ against Armitage. That every jostle has the hard length of his rubbing against Armitage in an indecent way that is new and a bit alarming. 

Dameron curses under his breath as his hand shoves into Armitage’s pocket—digging around roughly in search of the keycard that Armitage is fully aware is tucked away in an inner pocket inside his tunic. He could tell him that, could end this assault, most likely—so why does he keep his mouth shut?

He tries to breathe but it’s labored, his abdomen contracting as Dameron’s hand curls against Armitage’s thigh inside his pocket, as he pushes them deeper to—

Suddenly, Dameron goes still.

Armitage is trembling with equal parts fear and shame—unable to explain the traitorous behavior of his own body. He thinks Dameron will most likely kill him now, and at this moment Armitage thinks he wouldn’t mind dying—so he’s surprised, when Dameron touches him more… deliberately. 

“ _Ah,”_ Armitage cries out. 

Dameron whistles through his teeth. “What’s this? Are you fucking _hard_ under all these layers, Hugs?”

Armitage thrashes uselessly to try and get away—shuddering when Dameron’s hand encloses around Armitage’s _shameful_ erection through the thin lining of his pocket. 

“Oh, no,” Dameron tuts. “You’re not going anywhere.” He gives Armitage a deliberate squeeze as Armitage inhales sharply. “Look at you,” Dameron breathes against Armitage’s ear, eliciting a shiver. “You’re a little slut under all that hair gel, aren’t you.”

“N-no,” Armitage argues uselessly, disgusted with himself for the way he grows _harder_ in Dameron’s hand. “I’m not—I don’t—”

“And here you were calling _me_ filthy,” Dameron laughs. “Guess you don’t mind so much, huh?”

“Let me _go,_ you blasted—”

“No, I don’t think so,” Dameron hums, withdrawing his hand only to slide it under Armitage’s tunic. “This is too interesting. I had you pegged for a prim little tight ass, but you’re something different, aren’t you, General.” There’s a heavy thrust against Armitage’s backside that can only be called _purposeful_ —and Armitage hates the breathy sound that escapes him beyond his control. “Although,” Dameron laughs roughly, “I’d be willing to bet this ass of yours _is_ pretty tight.”

Dameron spins him suddenly then, taking Armitage by surprise when he pulls the hand in his pocket free and shoves his back against the metal rack to peer back at him with dark eyes. “I thought I would just maim you,” Dameron says throatily. “A blaster bolt to the leg, perhaps. A good hit to the head… but I think there might be a better way to subdue you,” he murmurs. His palm moves to cover the front of Armitage’s pants that is now tented slightly. “Maybe I should teach _you_ some manners, Hugs.” His eyes dip down to Armitage’s mouth. “You _are_ a pretty little thing, to be so fucking prim.”

Armitage opens his mouth, to speak, he thinks—but there is a buzzing in his head that he doesn’t understand, a heat in his chest and his belly that is foreign in its newness, and the words won’t come, he finds. Not that it matters, really. Dameron has other ideas.

The kiss is bruising and unexpected, Armitage’s first instinct being to struggle, to press his lips closed tight and try and push _away_ —not that it works. Dameron might be a few inches shorter than he is, but his arms are thicker, his chest broader. He holds Armitage immobile easily, even after having sustained the beating that he has. 

Besides, it isn’t… unpleasant, Armitage finds quickly. He wants it to be, _terribly_ so—but it’s wet and warm and new—and Armitage is struck by how _not_ unpleasant he finds it.

“Open your mouth, General,” Dameron rasps against. “Let me in.”

And Armitage would like to say that he resists, that he tells this disgusting flyboy to go to hell—but he doesn’t do that. For reasons Armitage doesn’t understand… he does exactly what his prisoner asks. 

The heat of Dameron’s tongue feels alien against his own, but again, not unpleasant. He seems to be an expert at this, whatever this is—and it makes that heat in Armitage’s chest more unbearable, more _potent._ He closes his eyes as some sort of throaty whimper escapes him, too dizzy to be embarrassed. Dameron’s hand is still clamped tightly around his wrist, but the one that is free, the one that holds the blaster—it wanders now, the weapon clattering to the floor. 

Armitage should fight back, probably, should scramble for his blaster and shoot the rebel scum—but he’s distracted wholly by the weight of Dameron’s tongue in his mouth, of his hands that are toying with the clasps of Armitage’s tunic. He works them apart one by one, and Armitage just… _lets_ him. Doesn’t even try to stop him. 

What in Maker’s name is _happening_?

“You’re a lot more agreeable when you’re touched like this,” Dameron murmurs into his mouth. “You let those other First Order bastards touch you like this?” Armitage shivers when Dameron’s tongue traces a line just under Armitage’s jaw. “You get all slutty like this for those fucking Stormtroopers?”

Armitage manages a shaky jerk of his head, a quiet, “N-no.”

“Just me then, huh?” His tunic falls apart in two gapped pieces now, Dameron’s hand delving beneath to slide across his chest, fingers tweaking one of Armitage’s nipples to make him gasp. “Look at you, Hugs,” he laughs. “Blushing like a little virgin. Anyone ever touched you? Anyone at all?”

Armitage bites his lip, lashes fluttering as these new feelings coursing through him threaten to ruin him, threaten to _drown_ him. “N-no one,” he manages. “Never.”

Dameron stills, his thumb stopping mid-roll of Armitage’s nipple. There’s a brief moment where Armitage thinks that Dameron will stop this, and he can’t be sure why suddenly he’s terrified of that possibility, why he’s desperate for the exact _opposite._

“Lucky me,” Dameron murmurs, leaning back in to press his mouth to Armitage’s throat as he releases Armitage’s wrist to push at his hip. “Turn around.”

“No,” Armitages tries with as much assertion as he can, trying to cling to his dignity. “ _No.”_

“Oh?” Dameron squeezes at Armitage’s cock through the dark pants of his uniform. “You want me to stop? You don’t look like you want me to stop. You look like you want me to make you come, Hugs.” Dameron’s thumb finds the head of Armitage’s cock through the fabric, pressing there as Armitage’s head lolls forward, moaning softly. “I can, you know. I can make you feel good.” He nips at Armitage’s throat. “But you gotta do as you’re told.”

Armitage sucks in a breath when Dameron’s lips latch onto the sensitive skin of his neck, beginning to suck lightly. His legs are shaking anyway, his cock throbbing in Dameron’s hand and begging for relief, and it feels almost easier to just do as he asks. He turns on trembling legs to face the rack again, his cheek pressing against the cool metal and his hands bracing at the edge of either side. 

Dameron’s warmth is against his back immediately, his hands coming around to wrestle apart the latch of his trousers before he starts shoving them down. Armitage’s eyes go wide as Dameron works them down Armitage’s hips—stuck between knowing that he shouldn’t be doing this, that he should _fight_ back, and his own desperate need to discover whatever it is Dameron is promising, to find the relief to this burning inside. 

He feels cool air against his bare ass, biting at his lip and screwing his eyes shut when Dameron’s hand grips him there to squeeze one cheek. “Look at all this pretty pale skin you’re hiding under all that black.” He gives Armitage’s ass another rough squeeze. “I could mark you up like you did me. I should spank this tight little ass until it’s as pink as your ears.”

Armitage whimpers, unsure if he’s opposed or apprehensive of the idea.

“But I think it would be just as effective,” Dameron drawls on. “Using… other means.”

Armitage gasps when he feels Dameron’s fingers tracing the cleft of his ass, his middle finger dipping between to press against the tight rim inside as Armitage instinctively squirms to try and get away. Dameron only presses against him a little harder, keeping him pinned.

“Now I want your hands on either side of this table, General,” Dameron purrs. “You can be good for me, can’t you? You can hold on and not let go?”

And Armitage can’t say why it feels so good, being ordered around like this—normally so tightly wound, so on edge from years of being pressed under someone’s thumb; for whatever reason, it feels so much _easier_ —letting go like this. 

So he grips either side of the upright table as instructed, curling his fingers against the edges as Dameron shoves a knee between his legs, widening them a little. He bends then—his hands sliding down either side of Hux’s legs, over the bunched mess of his pants slung between them as Dameron seems to settle on his knees behind Armitage’s prostrate form.

Dameron slides his hands down Armitage’s thighs. “You’re going to be a good boy. Aren’t you?”

Maker help him—Armitage feels himself nodding. “I’ll be good,” he whispers.

“That’s a good General,” Dameron practically coos. “I wouldn’t get too loud. Wouldn’t want any of your fellow officers to come looking. Wouldn’t want them to find you like this, would you?”

Armitage gives a slow shake of his head.

“Good boy,” Dameron murmurs.

And Armitage holds his breath when he feels Dameron’s thumbs spreading him apart, when he feels cooler air where it shouldn’t be—instinctively jerking away in surprise just to be pulled back by strong fingers curling around his hips. Then another repeat of the sensation of being spread, of being _opened—_ just before a thick, heavy wet of what he realizes is Dameron’s _tongue_ steals Armitage’s breath. 

He’s too surprised to be alarmed, to have any thoughts really—his first reaction is one of disbelief, because is this really a thing that is _done?_

But then something else begins to bleed through his shock, something just as foreign, just as alien, but just as… pleasurable as everything else. He presses his face tight against the metal rack, lashes fluttering as a low moan sounds on his throat, one he’s never made before, one that doesn’t even _sound_ like him.

Dameron licks at him with practiced effort, concentrating on the tight ring of muscle that Armitage never knew could feel so good. His breath huffs against the metal in front of him, warming it to match his heated skin—and before long Armitage finds himself pushing back against Dameron wantonly, acting every bit like the slut Dameron accused him of being but unable to help it; it just _feels_ better than anything he’s ever experienced.

He has to bite as his lower lip to keep from crying out when he feels the prod of Dameron’s finger at the softening wet of his hole—easing the tip inside around his still-wriggling tongue and beginning to work it in and out gently. With every slip inside Armitage’s breath catches roughly, almost like a hiccup of air, his legs shaking from the effort to remain upright when the sensations inside make him feel boneless.

Dameron licks at him until he’s soft enough to take the entire length of a finger, and then another, and then _another_ —a writhing, trembling mess by the time three of Dameron’s fingers are working in and out of his ass, filling and retreating only to fill again. Armitage rubs his cock against the cool metal below his torso for some sort of relief, his precum smearing everywhere he touches, and Dameron just keeps… _going._

Until suddenly he doesn’t.

Armitage outright whines when Dameron’s fingers slip from inside him to leave him empty, pushing backwards as if he might somehow persuade Dameron to touch him again, like a common _whore._

“Shh,” Dameron soothes, suddenly on his feet, his mouth near Armitage’s ear. “I think you’re ready for the real thing.”

Armitage feels the fear of something unknown rising in his chest, turning his head to the side to blink back at Dameron. “Real… thing?”

“Mhm.” Dameron shoves down just pants with one hand. His arm sandwiches between his front and Armitage’s back, and then there is the thick, hot press of something _else_ on Armitage’s spit-slicked rear. “Don’t you think you’ll look pretty, General? Split open on my cock? Don’t you think it’ll be pretty when my cum is leaking out of you?”

Armitage shudders. “We shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—”

“But you’re gonna,” Dameron rasps. “You’re gonna take every bit of this filthy rebel cock. Aren’t you.”

“D-Dameron,” Armitage stammers. “I—”

“My name”—Armitage feels the slide of Dameron’s cock against the cleft of his ass, smearing the sticky wet of his precum—“is not Dameron.” Armitage gasps when the head of Dameron’s cock slips between his cheeks, pressing against his stretched hole. “It’s Poe.”

Armitage clenches his teeth, closing his eyes as Dameron— _Poe_ —applies more pressure, the tight ring of muscle beginning to give way to the weight of Poe’s cock.

And his mouth falls open to go slack, a slight edge of pain even with the way Poe worked him—but even this, Armitage finds, is something he’s craving a little. The stretch is just as pleasurable as everything else, and he only mewls a _little_ when the fat head works past the muscle to fit snugly inside. 

Armitage’s chest rises and falls with effort, his breath leaving him in heavy pants that Poe’s is beginning to echo in rhythm. 

“ _Maker,_ you’re tight,” Poe grinds out. “Fucking hot inside too. You seriously never let anyone fuck this pretty little ass?”

Armitage manages to shake his head, but it takes effort.

“Mm.” Poe slides inside another inch, leaning closer to mouth at Armitage’s throat. “Guess I really am lucky.”

He keeps going and going and _going_ —feeding Armitage inch after inch until the hot press of his pelvis rests against Armitage’s backside. Armitage unconsciously clenches, the thick weight of him inside hot and _incredible,_ admittedly. 

Armitage is trembling a little, when Poe’s lips nibble at his earlobe, when his tongue darts out to trace the shell—Poe shifting his hips to stir him up inside, letting him get used to the intrusion. 

“Feels like a fucking dream inside you, Hugs,” Poe huffs against his throat. “Gonna move now. Hold on.”

Armitage has to grit his teeth as Poe starts to draw out, the sensation of a cock dragging against him inside odd but _wonderful_ , admittedly. A breathy sigh escapes Armitage when Poe pulls out to the head, lingering for only a moment before starting to push back inside. 

His next withdrawal comes a little faster, his reentry just a little harder, building a rhythm. Armitage can’t say when he gets used to it, can’t say when that slight tingle of pain gives way to mind-numbing pleasure—but Poe touches something inside with a particularly hard thrust, something Armitage hadn’t known existed. Something that makes Armitage moan in _earnest_ —so loud that Poe’s hand reaches to cover his mouth.

“Shh,” he reminds him through clenched teeth. “You want them to find you? Want them to see you stuffed full of enemy cock?”

Armitage jerks his head in answer. 

Poe’s hand only pulls away from Armitage’s mouth when Armitage falls quiet, sliding down his front through the parted fabric of his tunic, down and down until his fingers brush over the hard length of Armitage’s cock.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Poe rasps. “Just like a little slut. You just needed someone to fuck you, didn’t you.” Poe fists Armitage’s cock, giving him a rough stroke just as he slams inside Armitage’s ass. “Just needed someone to touch you a little. Warm you up.”

Armitage thinks he nods, but he can’t be sure, practically drooling as Poe touches that place inside with the head of his cock again and again and _again._ He can feel hot pressure pooling low in his belly, blooming into his cock that _swells_ in Poe’s hand. 

“You gonna come for me, General?” Poe licks a hot stripe against Armitage’s neck just as he gives Armitage’s cock another punishing stroke. “Gonna come with my cock in your ass?”

“Y-yes,” Armitage chokes out. “ _Yes.”_

“You close?” Poe rolls his hips to dip in and out of Armitage’s ass. “Tell me when you’re close.”

“I’m—” Armitage shudders as Poe’s fist twists a little at his cock. “I’m _close,”_ he hisses. “So _close.”_

And he’s going to come, he thinks. He’s never come with another person in his _life_ —but he’s going to now. With the _enemy._ With this filthy, insolent, _deplorable_ —

Suddenly everything stops.

Armitage whines in protest, Poe’s cock still seated deep inside his ass, Poe’s fist wrapped around his cock, but still, _maddeningly_ so. 

“W-what,” Armitage huffs. “Don’t—”

“I want you to tell me where that keycard is,” Poe purrs against Armitage’s ear. “The one that opens the door.”

For a moment Armitage doesn’t know how to respond—his brain trying to process, trying to reconcile the request being made with the hard cock still deep inside him.

And then he realizes. 

He realizes he’s been _used._

Armitage can’t explain the sudden flood of disappointment, because he couldn’t care in the slightest about this blasted pilot.

He sneers as he tries to scramble away, subsequently pulling on Dameron’s (he refuses to think of him as _Poe_ now _)_ cock inside him and causing him to cry out before Dameron pushes back into him, pinning him against the metal rack. “Now, now,” Dameron tuts. “Don’t be like that. I did something nice for you… now you’re going to do something nice for me.”

“ _Nice?”_ Armitage practically spits the word. “You _used_ me.”

“Don’t mistake, Hugs,” Dameron laughs. “I’m _thoroughly_ enjoying my end of this little bargain.” He undulates against Armitage for good measure as Armitage whimpers. “Think you are too. But I sort of have somewhere to be.” Dameron grips Armitage’s cock a little tighter. “Give me the card, and I’ll let you come.” He drags his slicked palm down the length of Armitage’s throbbing cock, too slow to get him there, just enough to drive him a little crazier. “Don’t you want to come? Be a good boy for me, and I’ll let you.”

He’s about to tell him to go to hell, about to tell him _exactly_ what he can do with his admittedly lovely cock—but then Dameron moves, a slow, torturous slide in and out, pushing in _impossibly_ deep as he reenters and bumping up against that place, that fucking _place_ —the one that makes Armitage’s eyes roll back. 

He fists Armitage’s cock hard at the base, so tight that it’s uncomfortable, making it nearly impossible to come. All the while he begins to make short, maddening little strokes, ones that don’t ever take himself out but instead making rapid little bumps against that heavenly place inside, reducing Armitage to a flustered, mewling mess.

“Come on,” Dameron urges. “Just give it to me. Give it to me, and I’ll let you come. Good boys get to _come_.”

“I—I can’t— _fuck you_ —I can’t—”

“I can keep this up all day, Hugs. I can fuck you like this until you’re raw, and I _still_ won’t let you come.”

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut, because it’s too much, it’s _entirely_ too much, almost _painful_ —and he finds himself reaching with trembling fingers, almost as if he can’t help it, because he _can’t._

He finds the hidden pocket inside his tunic, pulling out the keycard Dameron is asking for with shaking hands as he holds it up high where Dameron can take it. Dameron plucks it away, humming in triumph, knowing he’s won.

“That’s a good boy,” Dameron coos. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His grip on Armitage’s cock loosens a bit, but only just. “Now you’re going to come. You’re going to come with my cock inside you.” His voice lowers to a breathy whisper against Armitage’s throat. “And you’re going to say my _name_ when you do.” Despite his promise he’s still, leaving Armitage suspended just on the edge of _something._ “Unless you want me to stop?”

Armitage bites his lip with enough force to draw blood, shame coursing through him at the surge of displeasure he feels at the idea of not getting… whatever it is that Dameron can give him. 

“Say it, General,” Dameron breathes against Armitage’s ear. “Tell me to stop. Or tell me _not_ to.”

And Armitage will most likely hate himself later for the desperation in his voice when he whispers, “Don’t stop.”

He can almost hear Dameron’s smile. “Good boy.”

And he’s driving into Armitage now, setting a punishing rhythm that is timed with the rough stroke of his fist, fucking in from both ends. Armitage is gasping, struggling to _breathe_ from the force of it, struggling to do anything but _take it_ , really. 

“My name,” Dameron grunts. “You _say my fucking name.”_

“Poe,” Armitage moans. “ _Poe.”_

His voice cracks when he feels his cock begin to spasm, pulsing in Poe’s hand as it spurts out to paint the metal that it bumps against. His mouth falls open as he shudders through it, eyes only flying open when he hears Poe’s sharp grunt, when he feels the sudden _warmth_ in his ass that comes from Poe’s throbbing cock. 

Poe lingers there after, letting his cock lay nestled in the mess he’s made—giving short little strokes as if to stir him up just before his teeth nip at Armitage’s throat gently. “Now, wasn’t that nice?”

Armitage presses his mouth together, refusing to answer. 

“You really are such a pretty little thing under all that sneering,” Poe sighs. “It makes me really sorry to have to do this.”

Armitage feels the cold clamp of Poe’s picked cuffs clapping down on one of his wrists before he can even wonder about Poe’s meaning. The other end is latched around one of the clamps at the edge of the rack—leaving Armitage bound and helpless. Poe pulls out then with a wince, and Armitage feels the slow seep of cum beginning to leak out of his ass, only furthering his embarrassment. 

_Fucking Dameron._

His face heats impossibly with indignation, spinning to see Dameron stepping away where the swing of Armitage’s fists _just_ miss him.

“Sorry, Hugs,” Dameron grimaces. “I told ya, I got places to be.” He ducks to grab for Armitage’s discarded pants. “You don’t mind if I borrow these, do ya?” 

“ _Don’t you dare take my—”_

“Thanks,” Dameron drawls, ignoring him. He steps into them quickly to fasten them, moving across the room to grab for Armitage’s coat still draped over a chair. “This too. Can’t have anyone looking too close, ya know?” He flashes Armitage a dimpled grin. “I’m famous, after all.”

Armitage narrows his eyes, trembling not with arousal now (although his body still feels hypersensitive and thoroughly, _thoroughly_ used)—but with blinding _rage._

He watches Dameron don his uniform, situating it to make himself look more presentable. He holds out his arms in gesture as he looks down at himself, still grinning infuriatingly. “Whatdya think? I think I make this look good.”

“Fuck you,” Armitage spits. 

“Did that already,” he laughs. “But if you’re ever in _rebel scum_ territory, I’d be happy to do it again.”

Armitage can only gape back, _actually_ too angry to speak.

“Oh, almost forgot,” Dameron mutters, looking at Armitage with concern. “Need one more thing.”

And he comes closer in a way that has Armitage’s eyes widening, trying to shrink into the metal table but having nowhere to go—thinking that Dameron might maim him like he threatened, or worse _kill_ him—but why would he have cuffed him, why would he have—

He’s shocked for what is probably the dozenth time that day, when Dameron gives him a soft kiss at his mouth, lips lingering in a way that’s almost sweet. Armitage’s lashes flutter of their own accord, leaning in a little, unable to _help_ the way he does, and he—

Dameron snatches Armitage’s hat from his head, pulling away with a grin before pulling it over his unruly hair.

“Can’t forget the _pìece de résistance,”_ he says casually. 

“You—you wretched—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dameron laughs. “Rebel scum.” 

He practically _skips_ to the door, stooping to pick up Armitage’s discarded blaster before reaching the pinpad, sliding the card to open it and immediately blasting down the two guards at the door and dragging them inside to tuck them in a corner. He moves to leave then, turning one final time at the door and flashing that same maddening grin in Armitage’s direction. 

“Look me up if you ever decide you’ve had enough of these assholes,” he croons. He turns to go, stopping himself to give Armitage one last look. “I’m gonna have to lock you in while I find my ship,” he frowns. “You understand.” Another quirk of his mouth then. “I wouldn’t call for help if I were you.” He laughs softly. “I doubt you’d want them to find you”—his eyes sweep down the length of Armitage’s wrecked body, grinning—“like this.”

Then he blows a kiss, sauntering out the door. 

And as Armitage hears the whir of the locking mechanism clicking into place, as he feels Dameron’s cum still leaking out of him to trickle down his leg—he thinks to himself that he should have just killed him when he had the chance.

Telling himself that if he ever sees him again—he _absolutely_ will.

* * *

It is month’s later when Armitage hears his name again. He’s pushed what he’s come to refer to as _the incident_ far from his mind—trying his best not to recall his struggle of getting out of the cuffs, of trying not to look the Trooper who’d found him in the eye.

Armitage assured him that he wouldn’t live to laugh, if he ever repeated what he saw. It’s blessedly held so far.

It’s a normal day, one that is going well, all things considering. He hasn’t seen the _Supreme Leader_ in weeks, which means there is no constant threat of cutting off his air supply, no days spent suffering through the nightmare of him masquerading around in that gaudy helmet. Things are good, relatively.

Until Dopheld finds him.

“S-sir,” Dopheld starts, causing Armitage to turn. “You told me not to bother you—”

“Yes, so I’m wondering why you _are_ ,” Armitage sneers, eyeing the data pad Dopheld holds curiously.

“—unless I heard news on—on Commander Dameron.”

Armitage feels his spine go rigid, his body flushing beneath his tunic traitorously. He narrows his eyes. “What have you heard?”

“We picked up a transmission,” he stammers. “From the rebels encrypted comwave. It was about Dameron’s squadron.”

“And you still have the encryption code for the link?”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Dopheld sputters. “We can infiltrate it, perhaps we can use it to gain information. I was just going to alert the Supreme Leader, and—”

“ _No,”_ Armitage hisses, reminiscent of their _last_ conversation like this. “You will speak of this to no one. I have… special plans for this information.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve… put together my own task force to carry this out, discretion is of utter importance, or we will fail. You would not risk the Supreme Leader’s wrath by loosing your tongue, would you?”

Dopheld’s eyes widen, surely remembering the last time he brought displeasing news to Kylo Ren. “N-no. No, I wouldn’t.”

“Good.” Armitage holds out his hand. “Then forget you ever saw this.”

He gives a bow of his head, placing the data pad into Armitage’s waiting palm. “Yes, Sir.” 

Armitage waits until he’s out of sight to chance a look down at the data pad he’s holding—keeping his expression passive as he scrolls through the information briefly, finally tucking it inside his coat for safekeeping.

He’s got his own plans for this.

* * *

It is only later, tucked in the privacy of his own quarters—that he finally pulls it out again.

He takes a deep breath as his fingers hover over the encrypted message—hesitating briefly as he scans what he’s written one last time.

_General Organa,_

_Somehow, the Emperor has returned. The First Order has gained a new ally in Sidious who promises a Sith Fleet large enough to expand their number by ten-thousand-fold. Attached are detailed plans, schematics, and other various documents that will aid you in your counter strike. Use it well._

_Signed,_

_The Spy_

He grits his teeth as he hits send, tucking the pad back into a loosened grate under his feet and quickly closing it back to hide it. He sits at his bed for a long moment after, staring at the wall with a grimace, unable to believe how in Maker’s name he even came to this point.

He shakes his head.

_Fucking Dameron._

**Author's Note:**

> So like, this in-between TLJ/TROS piece makes Poe’s “I KNEW IT” so much funnier but also Hux’s demise sadder so I’m living in a world where Hux faked his death. 🥺
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kylotrashforever)!  
> I made a [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/KTF_Reylo), come follow me!


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